“Lady Madeleine willna disappoint ye, Da.” Caitrin had to believe that. Fletcher was the Lady’s family now, not MacGregor. Hoping to divert her father again, Caitrin said, “Jamie and Will and some of the other men are going to bring in the Yule log tomorrow. My ladies and I will gather greens to scent the hall with pine and fir.”
“And mistletoe?”
“Aye, of course.” Caitrin put a hand on his shoulder, leaned down and kissed the top of his dear head. Would her father ever recover from the darkness they’d suffered? Even though Lady Madeleine’s evil son, the former Laird MacGregor, was dead by his own wicked hand these three years past, Fletcher still bore the guilt of making Caitrin known to him. She was grateful that despite the scars she bore from those awful days, they’d survived. And they’d gained a blessing in Lady Madeleine’s marriage to her father. “Ye have always loved Yuletide, Da. Dinna rush past it in yer longing for spring.”
He snorted and slapped the arm of his chair. “I’ll enjoy it when my wife is again safely by my side.”
The next afternoon,laughter filled the great hall as Jamie, Will, and six other men struggled to carry in the massive Yule log. A phalanx of lads and the women of the clan lined their route from the keep’s heavy oaken door to the hearth, where a low fire had burned to glowing coals. Fir and holly branches woven together with bright red ribbons covered the long mantle and decorated the center of the hall’s trestle tables. Beribboned balls of mistletoe hung in every arch.
Fletcher stood by the keep’s open door, peering out into the bailey. “Did anyone see my wife out there?” Absently, he rubbed at his leg. “I can tell there’s a storm on the way.”
“She’ll be along later,” Jamie said as he passed, hoping that was true. “Dinna drop this beast!” He admonished as one of the other men shifted his grip on the log—actually the trunk of a birch tree. “Yer toes will never be the same.” He made sure his grip was firm, then glanced back to the door. Fletcher still stoodvigil. Grimly, Jamie nodded to one of the lads standing nearby. “Close that or the hall willnever warm.” Then Jamie called for Fletcher to join them.
They reached the hearth and lowered their burden before dropping it. Still, the thud seemed to shake the very walls.
Another thud followed as the keep’s heavy oaken door slammed shut. Fletcher left his post to join the men standing in front of the hearth. “Is it ready to light?”
“’Tis dry enough, “ Jamie replied. “As soon as the lasses carve the last symbols, we’ll be ready to push it into the hearth and for ye to put the torch to it.”
“We should wait for Madeleine. Ye ken she loves the Yuletide rituals.”
“We’ll do as ye wish, Laird, but do ye think ’twould be better for her to come home to a warm hearth?”
“Of course. Of course. ’Tis bitter cold outside. Get on with it, lad,” Fletcher agreed and waved a hand.
Jamie bent to work and kept his smile of satisfaction to himself, pleased with the number of people lingering in the hall after the midday meal. Fletcher had done just as he’d hoped and given a clear order. The longer the others in the clan saw Fletcher as still in charge and not the anxious, weakened man he was becoming, the better for all.
“My wife will be here soon and the hall must be warm and ready,” Fletcher went on while he watched the preparations continue. “Has Cook made honey cakes? They’re her favorites.”
“Aye, Laird. I believe she has.” Jamie hoped so. He gestured for the lasses to begin carving symbols sacred to the old gods and goddesses on the log. They were meant to ward away evil and bring good luck and a good harvest.
Jamie went to fetch the torch made from the remains of last year’s Yule log from its place of honor under the laird’s bed. By the time he returned, all was ready.
The men shoved the end of the log onto the glowing coals.
Jamie poured a cup of wine over it, careful to spread it along the part of the trunk’s length within the hearth and not let it drip into the coals to flare up. As the log burned over the next dozen days, men would shove it further into the fire.
He lit the torch he’d retrieved in the embers around the log and handed it to Fletcher. “’Tis yer hall, Laird Fletcher, so yer place to bring the clan good luck in the new year.”
“Aye.” Fletcher took the burning torch and put flame to the log. The wine flared up immediately, then the embers around the log did, too. Once the dry wood caught fully, he laid the torch onto it and turned to face the people gathered around him. “A wee dram for all, to celebrate!”
Caitrin led a small procession of serving lasses from the kitchen, each carrying a tray of cups and a jug of good MacKyrie whisky, which they set on the tables nearest the hearth. She filled a cup for her father, then another she offered to Jamie. He accepted it with a smile, but her brows drew together. “She’s still no’ here.” She kept her voice low. “I’m worried, Jamie. Lady Madeleine should definitely have arrived by now, even given the weather.”
Jamie saw the concern in her eyes. “He keeps asking for her.”
Caitrin looked toward the windows. “’Twill be dark soon. Likely her escort will make camp for the night. Should we send a rider out to meet them?”
“We dinna ken how close they might be. Lady Madeleine promised to be back for Yule. We have to believe she will. If the storm breaks tonight, a man alone will be in danger.”
Caitrin nodded, but her frown deepened, her gaze on her father. “If only she were here, he would calm.”
Fletcher, drink in hand, paced by a window that looked out into the bailey. “I heard something. Did anyone hear someone out there?” He rubbed at the glass. “I canna see through the fogon this pane.” He tossed off his whisky and resumed staring at the window.
“I wish there was something we could do,” Caitrin said.
Jamie nodded to the bottle she held. “Pour him another. Maybe that will soothe him. We dinna want him to leave the hall to wait for her outside.”
Caitrin nodded and went to her father. She spoke softly to him, took his elbow, and led him to his seat by the hearth.
